Latitudes
by vigirl
Summary: Grissom receives a phone call after court, and what follows for him and Sara - extended post-ep - G/S - Ch 3 - updated
1. Default Chapter

Title: **_Latitudes_**

Author: Alison Nixon

Rating: PG

Category: Angst, Drama, UST/AST

Spoilers: References to The Accused Is Entitled and Scuba Doobie Doo

Summary: Grissom receives a phone call - G/S

Disclaimers: The usual. None of the characters are mine. They belong to Anthony Zuiker, Alliance-Atlantis, CBS, et al. No infringement intended.

Feedback: Definitely! I'd love to know what you think.

Archival: With permission. Please email me at anixon72@hotmail.com

Notes: I'm fascinated by the dynamics of TAIE, G/S and otherwise.  The latter seems to spark things for the former, in more ways than one, I think. ;-) (And thanks again to Devanie for the good first word!) 

*****

How long had he been sitting here?  It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, maybe ten.  Maybe twenty.  It was impossible to tell; he had existed outside of time ever since the jumble of sounds coming at him from Gerard sorted themselves into the only two that mattered: _"her relationship."_   The moment he comprehended that series of syllables was the last in which he had been fully aware of where he was and what was happening, the last moment when his feel for the case could be disentangled from his feelings for her.  Years of practiced hiding covered his disarray; the others would never have known what roiled him, not even the person who had caused it all.  Not that she would have cared anyway.  She had other things on her mind…saving her career, defending her work, protecting her…relationship.  

_How long has it been going on?  When did I…lose?  _He thought he knew what she thought and felt, even after he stopped returning her calls, even after he first made the connection in the casino.  _"Is Sara with you?  Tell her I said 'hi.'"_  That's not how a lover speaks, is it?  He had not thought so, then.  Grissom cast his eyes down to his desk, picking through the messy surface as if in search for the clues he had missed.  She obviously had intended to keep it quiet.  That's why she didn't just admit the truth to Gerard right away.  That's why all he said was to tell her hello.  That's all he needed to say; Sara would understand what it meant.  _"We go to movies._"  Did she really expect that to be believed?  She's free, so is he.  But they only go to movies.  Sure, that made all the sense in the world.  No man would offer to be a beautiful woman's movie date, and nothing more.  She was too enticing for that, too tempting, as no one knew better than he.  You start out with the most innocent intentions, but after enough of those smiles and those eyes watching you with such steady warmth that you feel like the only man left in the world, innocence of thought, want, or need disappears as rapidly as a flash of lightning streaks through the night sky before it runs away.  It would be impossible for this man not to want her, and—his throat felt suddenly thick—equally impossible for her not to respond to his want.  _How long?  When did I lose?  I lost my life, and I can't even say when._  Out of time, outside of time as the rush of life passed him by. 

_I need to think.  I need time to think.  It's happening too fast, too soon_.  And already, it was too late--he had told her to go have a life with the man, to join the rush of what was leaving him behind.  How could he undo that now?  Once you say that someone is no longer yours, how do you turn back to reclaim her?  How do you redraw the lines to make her part of your landscape, your life's terrain, once you have let her go?   How indeed, with as little as he had to offer.  _Choose me; come to me because I can give you_…What?  Silence?  The silent world of an old man who can't even give her the perfection that we all wish we had been and later hope to raise ourselves.  A world that would haunt him to his grave, a contaminated realm that would ruin her and anything he helped her create--that was what he had to give.  Biological reality-- nothing more, and nothing less--the healthy never choose the sick.  They mourn, they keen, they pity the diseased, but in the end, no one chooses them.  Life chooses life.  It must.  It knows no other way.

The ringing intruded so unexpectedly, loud and harsh, that he nearly jumped.  The phone.  He stared at it with shadowed eyes.  The one person he wished to hear from was the least likely to call, here or at home. Those times were gone now.  He had only been fooling himself that it could have ever turned out otherwise.  But this was the third ring; he had to pick up.

"Grissom."

"Gil."

The heat started traveling upward from the base of his neck, and slowly spread itself over his face.  

"Doc?"  He looked up at one of the shelves arrayed against the wall to his left, which was filled with dead bits and pieces that floated, ghost-like, in murky fluids.  "What do you want?"  His voice was like ice.  "I think we've said all that we need to say to each other--you, me, and my mother." 

A gentle laugh came through the line, smug in its security.  _I wanted to be like him, all those years ago.  Is that how I sound?_   

"Come now, Gil.  Don't take it so hard.  You won, you proved your point."

"It's not about winning or losing.  You're the one who taught me that, or don't you remember?"

"Ah, but we live in an adversarial culture, Gil.  Science, forensics, justice…they are not immune from those forces.  Contest brings out the best in people; it forces them to purify their thinking and reexamine their logic in order to prove that they are in the right.  If I hadn't pushed you, you could never be sure of what was or was not compromised in this case."

Grissom gripped the phone tightly, but forced himself to sound disinterested.  "Don't flatter yourself.  I was sure about the evidence before you showed up, and I stopped needing any pushes from you a long time ago. I know this was personal to you, just a way of getting back at me for what happened in L.A., but you didn't hurt me at all, Philip."  He had lapsed a moment before; this time he carefully marked off the new and permanent distance between them by using the first name of his false friend.   

"All you did was hurt a bunch of decent, hardworking, dedicated people who didn't deserve to have their personal lives exposed to the world just to spite me."

He heard Gerard's breathing dip briefly before he recovered his usual smooth tone.  

"Personal, Gil?  I don't think so.  I don't carry a grudge about the way our…association…ended.  I was just doing my job, you were just doing yours.  Perhaps there was a tinge of biting the hand that fed you on your part, maybe a touch too much pleasure in refuting me, but I've long since forgiven you."

"Forgiven me?  I don't need--"  

"And, let me just add, that while the majority of your team's personal issues are their own and do not reflect on you, there is one that you should take responsibility for."

He knew that his little stratagem had worked when Grissom did not reply.

"You do know the one I mean, don't you?  That rather sweet girl, Ms. Sidle.  Smart and lovely—must be a heady combination to work with every day." 

"Maybe you should ask her out, since you seem to take such an interest."

The quiet laugh, again.  "She's a little…young for me."  

"Since when?"  

Gerard's eyes narrowed.  "None of my younger friends worked under me, Gil.  And besides, I wouldn't want to step on your toes with this one.  You've proven to be a formidable adversary when…roused."

"Is this why you called?  Haven't you spent enough time at the bottom of the barrel for a lifetime by now?" Grissom said coldly, not bothering to disguise his disdain.  "Perhaps you have nothing better to do, but I do. Goodbye."

The man's voice was like a wave battering his ears, forceful, insistent, impossible to evade.

"Don't take out your frustration with your own behavior on me, old friend.  The others are on their own, but you have to take responsibility for whatever…damage…Ms. Sidle may have suffered."

Grissom could feel the surge in his heartbeat like a physical shock.  "Damage?"

Gerard spoke as if he were contemplating a calamitous disaster from very far away.  "She's so young, really.  Still establishing her professional reputation, her credibility with colleagues, with the courts…with herself."

The silence at the other end reassured him that he was on the right track.  "I have to hand it to her.  She handled Marjorie's badgering about Hank Peddigrew very well; I would swear she didn't blink once or even turn her eyes away.  Either she's the coolest woman I've ever met, or…she really doesn't have anything to hide regarding him.  I bet she would have passed a polygraph at that point," he chuckled.  "Very smooth performance."  He seemed to pause to consider something before continuing in a more puzzled vein. "But then, something happened.  I could see it in her face—a little crack in the veneer.  Her eyes flickered, she swallowed as if she were about to choke…"

"Sara wouldn't crack; that shows how little you know--"

"Chalk.  From plaster, right?"  Gerard smiled faintly.  "Yes, that was it."

Grissom couldn't speak.

"The poor girl was completely caught off guard.  She tried her best, but she couldn't quite recover in time, I think.  I don't know why, but she looked at me after Marjorie asked the question.  _J'accuse_."  He shrugged.  "I was just doing my job.  It's hardly my fault that someone saw that strange…encounter outside the Renteria apartment building, is it?  Why did they make a note of it?  I have no idea.  Must have struck a chord, somehow."  He waited for the question to form in his adversary's mind. "The inappropriateness of it.  Supervisor.  Subordinate.  Physical contact.  On the job."  His sigh was thoughtful. "Really, I can't imagine what she was thinking when she did it."

Sara… 

"Can you?"

Grissom was numb with some inexplicable cold. Flushed skin, racing heart, flashing eyes, and yet, frozen.

"She must be rather…emotional."

He willed himself to find his tongue.  "She's…she's not emotional.  She was being kind."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?"  Gerard laughed out loud.  "Sorry, I just couldn't resist using Marjorie's line--did you know she practices that kind of remark as part of her trial preparation?  I heard her try out a number of variations of it the night before as we prepped."  He sighed appreciatively.  "But I think she ended up going with her best one, after all."

"But do you know what's the strangest thing, Gil?  I could actually be persuaded that Ms. Sidle wasn't influenced by any improper emotion for the EMT, I really could.  But I think she could easily be influenced by emotions for you.  Isn't it…curious?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about.  I'd suggest you stop now before you make a complete fool of yourself." The words fell from his lips in much the same way that a slot machine releases coins, with a kind of furious indifference.  He would be damned if Gerard made him lose his composure now, after the immediate danger of the case had passed.

The older man continued in his paternal way, just making conversation, it seemed.  "Curious."

He left it there; both men fell silent.  Gerard leaned back in his chair, content to wait, his expression the picture of indulgence.  He knew Grissom quite well enough for this.  One, two, three…

"What's curious?"

Even when he lost with his former protégé, he won.  Too bad the boy had not realized that by now.  Gerard's eyes brightened as he moved in for another strike.

"Well, whatever her motives, you _let_ her touch you, didn't you?" The question, brutal in its simplicity, twisted in the static between them.  "She must have felt free to do that, somehow, free to…expose herself to you.  She strikes me as a rather guarded personality, much like you in some ways.  One wonders why she would take such a risk."

"Are you enjoying this? Is that it?"

"No, no, Gil.  I'm simply trying to piece together the puzzle of what I saw up there on the stand. And what I saw on your face when I brought up Peddigrew.  If fascinates me, for some reason.  Actually, I think it rather fascinated Marjorie, too.  She didn't see your face, but I described the whole scene to her.  Being a professional woman herself, she was rather harsh in her assessment of Ms. Sidle.  I think she rather enjoyed sharing her opinion with the court and the gallery.  How did she phrase it again?  Oh, yes.  _'How far would Sara Sidle go on evidence to please her boss, Gil Grissom?' "_  He traced a circle pattern against the dark wood grain of the table in front of him, continuing almost idly,  " '_whether he returns those feelings, or not.' "_  

"You're lying. The judge would never allow that kind of slander."

"Oh he didn't like it, I think that's safe to say, but you know how prelims are…wider latitude.  Something you turned to your advantage in the end," Gerard noted with grudging admiration.  "But before you saved the day, the question was put out there, and I'm sure Ms. Sidle will hear it echoing in her ears for some time to come.  I would, if I were her."

"You're not her."

"Oh, I know.  But she seems like such a sensitive young woman.  Vulnerable, despite the coolness.  I wonder if she might rethink her…position."

I can't think…my head is too full, I can't even think… 

"What…" Grissom fought for calm, "what are you talking about now?  She's happy here at the lab.  I know she is."  _I hope she is._  

"I'm not questioning that.  I just wonder if Marjorie might have given her a little wakeup call about her position…with you.  Maybe it was a healthy thing, in the end.  She might begin to see herself as others do, and to appreciate that you're a man far too professional, too analytical and…" he pronounced the word with relish, "shuttered…to get into some 'office romance' with a girl nearly half your age who is also your direct subordinate.  Not to mention the matter of involving her in your…impairment.  No, that's not the Gil Grissom I know."

The tragic irony of it made Grissom catch his breath.  Hearing a man he despised describe the situation so decisively, as if he had nothing but the purest logic on his side was the best proof.  Gerard did not know him; whatever he thought Grissom would never do was, by definition, something he could do. _Who is the Gil Grissom that I know, that I want to know?_  It rushed over him in a moment, something rather like a continuous electric current strong enough to set his senses on fire.  _Something I could do, by definition._  Strangely animated, he opened his lips to explain to Gerard just how wrong he was, how he had missed the point entirely, when he stopped short, his mouth open. How could he have forgotten?  How could he?  _Territory lost._  Out of time, outside of time.  She was no longer his.  

Grissom brought his hand to his mouth and made a fist against his lips.  He struck himself there, again and again, and closed his eyes.  He hadn't done that in years; it was an old habit of his youth, light blows to force himself to remember, to force himself to accept.  Delivering a sensory reminder to himself to pay attention to the reality of what was in front of him and what was to be done, no matter how tired or unhappy or distracted he felt.  His mother used to grab his fist and hold it away from his body to stop him.  She would look at him and he would look at her, wide eyed, wondering at her concern.  It was just a reminder.  Everybody needed those.  Didn't they?  

Grissom opened his lids with an effort.  He forced his hand back down to the desk.  The fist collapsed into a flat plane that he pressed, palm down, into the thick cardboard blotter that covered that most of its surface.  His pulse slowed, the current receded, and his breathing resumed.  

"My mother says 'hello'," he said softly.  The phone reclaimed its place on the cradle with a definitive click. 

When he looked up, he caught a flash of movement in the glass panel of his door.

She still looked nice.

He stood slowly and circled in front of his desk.  Maps are redrawn all the time.  In time, inside time as the rush of life awaited him.  

Their eyes met through the glass for a long moment.  He gave her a silent nod, and let her open the door.

_TBC…_


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Disclaimers, headers in Chapter One

Notes: Thanks to everyone who has read and commented.  It means a lot more than I can say.  Picking up where we left off…

********

She walked in, her step uncertain, and pushed the door back jerkily, as if her hand had encountered some invisible resistance from its hinges and joints.  He could only assume that some inner reluctance was to blame; he had put a few drops of oil into its creakier places not very long before.  Usually, he would have ignored something so trivial, but his ears translated sound so unevenly now that high-pitched noises grated on his nerves as badly as the lower tones that he strained to strain to catch at all.  Amplification, dampening--sometimes one, sometimes the other, but never simply 'normal.'  Not anymore.

Grissom dragged his attention back from that brink to contemplate another, which despite its lovelier form was no less dangerous.  _Is she dangerous?_  He followed the evidence with his eyes.  Black heels, tailored and sleek; smooth skin rising to the hem of her skirt; an improbable curve from hip to waist encased in a slightly textured material, soft and gray.  There were other clues: the light gray blouse that skimmed her torso, the beaded necklace encircling her neck, which drew the eye to the hollow of her throat.  From a purely physical standpoint, he supposed, lost in this investigation, all of the things he had just cataloged held danger enough.  But as he progressed to tracing the fine bones of her face, marked by its high cheekbones and generous mouth, he had to acknowledge the truth.  The true brink was in her eyes.   

Strangely preoccupied by the whorls in the floor during his study of her, she only looked up when she felt his gaze on her face.  They watched each other.  He wanted to speak, tried to speak, but her look made him hesitate.  His future lay in those eyes, and right now, they refused to be read.  Dangerous.  So dangerous.

"Are you all right?"

Could a sound so soft possibly harm?  He blinked and pressed his fist into his thigh.  _Pay attention.  This is real; this has to be done. _ 

"Yes, I'm…No."  It was impossible to know where to begin.  There was so much to say. 

"You seemed a little…distracted on the stand.  Well, not distracted, because I could see how closely you were watching that Westcott woman as she spoke, but…"  She caught his slight flinch, and trailed off in confusion.  None of this was her business, really.  _I deserve to have a life, but just not your life, right?  And yet, even after that, here I am. _

"I was having some trouble," he said, awkwardly, as if experimenting with some foreign tongue.  "I was having some trouble…" He fought his hands, flattening them against his sides as he forced the next word from his lips, "focusing."  

Sara frowned.  "That's what I thought, but…you're the most focused person I know.  I don't understand."  

Why was he staring at her like that?  He looked so…lost.  Unsure.  Was it possible?  _He's not yours to worry about anymore, if he ever was.  Just let it go_.  But the staring was applying a kind of torque to her heart. 

"What, what is it, Grissom?  Are you ill?"

The half-laugh, a peculiar noise that slipped from his lips in a rush of agitation and shame, could not have been more ill timed.  He saw her face close.

"Sara, I need to--"

"I really don't know why I came in here," she said hurriedly, backing up towards the door. "I should go; I have that life to get back to, don't I?"  

"Wait, don't."  He moved in closer, angling his body between her and the door. "Wait."

Her arms crossed into a familiar position across her stomach.  She looked away from his face, which was turned to hers from where he now stood, just behind her. 

"That's not the life I meant."

The frown returned, marring the smoothness of her skin.

"I was speaking…generically.  You deserve to have a life, like everyone else does, not some specific kind of life with--"  He stumbled, tangling himself in the urge to say something, anything, while his courage held.  "With anyone in particular."

She turned her head, her eyes sharp and a little bright.  "What does that mean?"

His future, watching him with a face full of questions and doubt--he could feel the first of a series of tiny shudders, small but strong, snake through him.  He just managed not to back away.  "It means--"  

He closed his lips and his eyes.  _Life chooses life._  _Am I even really alive? _

"Do you believe me?"

His eyes opened.  

"Do you believe me?" 

"About what?"   Some buried instinct warned him to speak carefully.

She rotated her body so that she was facing him squarely with her feet planted opposite his.  

"That I'm not having a relationship with him."

He stared.  She waited, challenging him with her eyes.  He braved it for a few seconds before he had to look away.

"Excuse me."  She was past him and at the door in an instant.

"Sara, wait."  He tried to sound firm.  "It doesn't matter." 

She wheeled around, her dark eyes wide with disbelief.  "Of course it _matters_, Grissom.  Why can't you just answer the question?" 

"I…I don't know what I believe or don't believe.  I can barely think right now.  I only know that I want to—"

"You really don't trust me at all, do you?"  

This isn't…that isn't…I can't focus. 

"I trust you. I do."

It was her turn to laugh, a scornful sound that echoed unpleasantly in his ears.  "And yet, when I tell you I'm not seeing him, you don't believe me.  Must be a special kind of trust."  She hunched her shoulders in a caricature of her usual eloquent shrug.  "I'm so flattered."

"I do trust you."  Some part of his distracted mind could sense the likelihood of flight; he took hold of her arm near the shoulder. 

"Then why don't you believe me?"

The small part of her that he could feel was so tense it hardly seemed as if he was touching her real body at all.  He had expected softness, had counted on it, in some obscure way.  But it was already gone, it seemed, before he had even told her the truth.  How much worse would it be if she knew?  His answer came slowly, as the realization broke over him.

"Because you couldn't possibly…"  

_You couldn't possibly_ _want me if you knew.  Not like I want you._  And without that mutuality, that perfect symmetry, he knew it would never work.  

Sara, left to decipher the flashes across his face when his voice died in his throat, finished his thought in the only way she could.  Y_ou couldn't possibly…be true.  You couldn't possibly be true to me.  _

Whatever animation had been left in her face faded in precise tandem with the remaining light in her eyes.  He watched it happen, the slow draining of life, with a kind of sick recognition.  He administered blankness, as a master of the art, but he had never been on the other side, not with her. 

"You know, at least I can guess where Marjorie Westcott is coming from."  Her voice was eerily calm.

This was his chance, surely—he should have started there as soon as she walked in.  Her asking about his welfare had confused him; he should have been asking about hers. It had worked before when he couldn't gather his thoughts quickly enough—turn the focus onto her, and try to get out ahead of her to keep her from contemplating him too closely.  

"I know what happened in there, Sara, Gerard just called and told me. I'm so sorry--"

It was as if he had not spoken at all.

"She's a professional shark, plain and simple.  No thought, no conscience, always assuming the worst of everyone she encounters because it might benefit her client, somehow."  Sara cast her eyes over his shoulder. "But you…you believe what you believe not because of it's your job, but because you think it's actually true.  And that I am…not true."  She began to nod rhythmically, like some beautiful sage.  "I already knew that it would be hard to push her accusations to the back of my mind."  Then the nodding ceased. 

"But I had no idea that I'd have to find a place in my mind for yours."

His gripped the small part of her he held tightly, too tightly.  She didn't seem to notice.  The words kept coming.

"A woman who lets her emotions get the better of her work.  A woman who could screw up evidence to please…"  She swallowed, a jagged, convulsive spasm of muscles and tendons that held him spellbound.  "…the men she works with.  A woman who could have a relationship with one man and…play some awful…game with another."  

Despite the thin glaze that now clouded her vision, no tears fell, and she managed to find his eyes.

"I guess, I guess I shouldn't blame you, right?  Who could possibly trust a woman like that?  As a colleague, or as a…"

He caught his breath for the second time that day.  Hearing the woman he loved describe the situation so decisively, as if she had nothing but the purest logic on her side was surely the worst proof.  Proof of what he still could not bring himself to do.

He could feel her slipping out from under his hand; his hold had loosened as she looked into his eyes.  She took a step back, a sentiment punctuated by the double click of her tapered heels striking the floor.  She watched him as he stared at her with his mouth parted as if he were about to speak.  The same look as before.  He hadn't spoken then, either.  Silence, the new language of love--how could she have forgotten?  _Love unreturned._

She moved to the door once more, but he caught at her upper arm just as she laid her hand on the knob.  They stood in place like two weary fighters, the one behind trying clumsily and with his final ounce of strength to pull the one in front back, back to the fray.  Better to fight together than to be at peace alone.  He pulled at that arm, which was so small and thin that his hand completely engulfed it, and tugged her a step backwards.  But before he could move his free hand to her other arm to hold her and pull her back against him, she wrenched herself away.  She neither spoke nor looked back at him again.  She simply pulled the door just wide enough to slip through and vanished from his sight. 

She moved as quickly as her shaky legs would allow.   Through her haze, she could grasp only one coherent thought: get away.  Car, home, and then… The destination didn't matter; she could take the day that followed and go wherever a map might take her.  But she had to get away before she saw him again.

_TBC…_


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Disclaimers, headers in Chapter One

Notes: Yes, I know, it's been forever.  Not sure why this chapter took so long to complete, but oh well…I'm filing it under "reasons to never do a honest-to-goodness WIP" again.  Ever.  Sigh.  G  Anyway, hope you like it…thanks in advance diving back in to the story with me…I hope. ;-)

***********

If the map could be trusted, she only had another forty-five minutes or so to go.  Two hours, one hour--she had been pretty rattled when she traced the route--her map-reading skills had probably been a little skewed.  An easy mistake, really, turning something simple into something complicated.  As easy as turning a map into a spider's web of colored lines with no real beginning or end…as easy as turning the distance between people into the distance between places, and trying to hold them both in her hands, hands that shook so badly that nothing could be seen.  Having been forced to sit, finally, she had flattened the thing against her lap and tried again.  So many escape routes, each reduced by a trick of cartography to nothing more than a series of fractional inches cut tidily to scale, no matter the reason for flight.  Run for your very life, and it still will come down to hash marks on rulers, lengths of fingertip.  She had finally crumpled the map into her purse; the details of her journey didn't much matter.  She needed to be on her way, even if the place she needed to be was far beyond the place where she was going.  _Story of my life, isn't it? _  She pushed a bit of her hair away from her face, only vaguely aware of the sound of her breath in the stillness of the car.  Two hours would have definitely have been better.

A car flashed by just then, heading in the opposite direction.  The sudden motion snapped her attention back to the ribbon of road before her, but her eyes drifted away again almost immediately.  _If I had shut it all out and stayed in bed, would that have been enough?   Just lie there and close her eyes to the wreckage, while burying her mind in the dark.  She would at least have mimicked a master, wouldn't she?   Not that he needed sleep to pull it off; he was hardly such an amateur.   No, he achieved his best escapes while wide-awake and staring at you, vacantly, as if you were some relic of a past he barely remembered.  She had never known someone who could evoke such distance with a simple glance.  It was a true talent._

The hand that had touched her hair fell back down to her thigh, where the tips of her fingers sought a home in the rough cotton.  Her mind fell as well, seeking its own kind of home in the memory of when she had seen him last.   She had found herself there at his office for no real reason, other than the need to be near him.  Doing that had always seemed so natural, but from the moment he spoke that night, there had been little naturalness at all.  He was invariably the master of strategies, one for every occasion, every outcome, but she had no idea what he had been trying to do.  To escape, to return, to open, to close--did he even know?  Feinting this way and that, he had succeeded in never offering her the same face twice.  And so she stood there, watching and listening, unable to shake the sense that she had caught him in the middle of something that he never intended her to see.  But what was it that she could not quite see_?   __"I've been having some trouble.   _Trouble...focusing."_   Focusing on what--on her, on "them," if there was such a thing?  __"That's not the life I meant."   That could have been it, the signal for whatever he was caught up in.  Could have been, but wasn't.   The only thing it signaled was that he was about to falter and fall, not from some ledge under which she could catch him, but back inside himself, into some place she could not reach.  That was why she asked the question.  She wanted him to see how simple it all was.  _

_I just wanted to break things down, like I should have done when he decided who and what I "deserved." __ First principles.  One question.  One answer.  Do you believe me?  He only had to say the word.  Just the one word to restore the status quo, the existing state of affairs…the existing state of their affair.  An ambiguous affair, conducted in a place she could not specify.  But at least it would have been their unspecified place, their realm of expectations and anticipations of the things to come.  _"I…I don't know what to believe…"  _Or what to say, obviously, since the only things that followed were half-finished thoughts, blank silence, and numbed eyes that revealed nothing.   Who knew where they were now, sort of together or totally apart, sort of in love, or totally not.  She stabbed at the soft flesh of her thigh as her lips moved into a thin line.  __No, __I know where I am.  __He is the one who… He was the one who had lost his bearings.  And over nothing, nothing except some tangled imaginings of the sort of woman she was, with him or anyone else.    _

Her eyes slid down to the dash.  Forty minutes.  She cursed at herself--five minutes had already run through her fingers.  This had to stop; it was her day off, her time to be good to herself.  If she was going to get away, then she had to really _get away_.  And that meant paying attention to the real world, the one peeling away from her windows at that very moment, not the one she had left behind.  She took a deep breath and refocused her eyes as the road continued to rise on its way through the Spring Mountains.  With a forced smile, an old habit came back to her.  _What do I spy?  _I spy... I spy the big red mountains, up ahead of me___…I spy the wild brown brush, beside me…I spy a tall man in a car, flying past me…I spy the white whisper of a cloud, mocking me.  _

She had forgotten how much she hated that game.

The sights, which were strung out like beads on a necklace, lapsed back into an unhappy blur until she clicked her indicator light at last and bore right_.  "Pahrump Valley Township 2 miles–The Heart of the New Old West."_  The slogan almost made her smile—it could have been The Hell of the New Old West and she still would have been grateful to be nearly there.  This had to be the perfect time to be talked at by some stranger who didn't care to know her troubles, only her preference: white or red.  As long as she could answer that one question to the stranger's satisfaction, she could leave the rest behind.  She could be anyone while she was here, actually, anyone at all.  Some contented wife and mother, grateful for the all too rare time alone, some young adventurer taking in local color on her cross-country way to God knows where, or even…a woman in love, caught up in the romance of racing to this place for a lazy day under the vines with the man who held her heart.  Under the vines, under the arbor, like a perfect pair painted into some quaint country pastoral.  Her eyes darkened as she laughed, bitterly, without sound.  _Yeah…you, him, and lips that taste of oak and sun, earth and wine…Sure, any day now…any day now, in that life that you deserve.  _

She blinked fiercely and squeezed the steering wheel.  _Get a grip.  This was her time, precious and not to be ceded to anything or anyone, even her own hopeless mind.  _Someone will ask you what this place was like and you'd better have an answer.  Open your eyes—what do you see? ____

Prettiness.  The prettiness of a valley between the mountains and under the clouds, or as the Paiutes described it so very long ago, Pahrump, the "place where big waters flow."  

Slowing down to merge into the traffic, she finally began to look around in earnest.  Highway 160, as the map had predicted, ran straight through the Pahrump Valley.  Clearly the main artery of the town, its double lanes divided the area neatly, although the bulk of the houses and "town life" appeared to be on her left, to the west and further north of where she was expecting to find the vineyards.  Vegas's flat sprawl had always struck Sara as spacious compared to the steep, densely settled hills of San Francisco, but Vegas seemed positively cluttered next to this place.  There was no contiguity, really.  Each structure stood alone like some lonely Western outpost, balefully facing off against its neighbors as if wary of their intentions.  Sara managed a small laugh; she could just imagine the dusty buildings going for their guns when they thought no one was looking.  

The lonely desperado image did capture the look of the place remarkably well, although the buildings in question weren't really dusty.  Now that she peered at them more closely, she could see that the tan color, tan with a hint of orange, was paint, not desert dust.  _How odd_.  Wouldn't people want their town to stand out against its backdrop in a range of colors?  Apparently not, since the only bright hues she could see so far came at the edges of things—roof lines, window casements, entrance doors, and the like.  That was probably how residents distinguished one dun-colored building from another, by seeking out the telltale splotches of brightness in an otherwise uniform front.  She could sympathize; she often relied on that kind of sense memory herself, rather than actual signs.  It was a talent of sorts, or so she had been told.  To see the way back to a place in your mind's eye, even years later, to visualize the route to a destination and trust in your way of finding it, even without reference to the step-by-step directions that most people were afraid to travel without.  To see herself there, before she really was.  She had always been good at that.  

She could already tell that finding her way back here would be especially easy, given the variety of place markers.  Although she had just barely crossed over the town limits, she had already passed the Pahrump Fire Department, which looked new and fine, the County Offices (as the sign in front noted, Pahrump was the Nye County seat), and the mayor's office.  Building, space, building, space—lots of empty, in between places to let your eyes wander.  Just when she had begun to question how anything as quintessentially green as a vineyard could exist in this beige landscape, she spotted several improbably tall trees poking their bushy heads up into the skyline.  Trees surrounded by acres of green.  A golf course, two courses actually, in close proximity off to her left.  Willow Creek, public course, and Executive Golf, as private as its name implied.  Both were strikingly lush insertions into the monochromatic landscape.  Lush signs of life that clashed ever so slightly with the _"Pahrump – Gateway to Death (Valley) – 60 miles"_ sign prominently placed between their entrances.  Sara's smile was wry.  _Now there's a postcard._

_I ought to be coming up on it pretty soon_.  _Winery Road, 3801 Winery Road_…She finally saw the sign on the east side of the highway, an unexpectedly pastel affair dominated by green curlicue vines and cheeky-looking fruit.  Sara slowed and veered into the turn, feeling the first spark of real interest she'd had since setting out on this trip.  This was definitely what she needed—something totally different.  And what could be more "different" than going to the only winery in the state, just for the hell of it?  This counted toward getting a life, didn't it?   Even if she was here alone, wishing she were here with him, it still had to count.  

As she continue to close the distance to the vineyard along Winery Road, she could see row upon row of vines planted with such grid like regularity that they looked like a rolling wave of green hovering over the ground.  That wave stretched to the foot of a rather impressive mountain that rose directly behind it in a mélange of brown and tan sprinkled with the dotted green of scrubby desert vegetation.  Mount Charleston, if she recalled correctly.  But if the mountain was cloaked mostly in neutrals, the winery itself, which she could finally see clearly up ahead on her right, was pristinely, assertively white.  It was a good choice.   Given the setting and the architectural style of the buildings, which must have been conceived of as a homage to wine country villas in the warmer, Mediterranean-influenced regions of Europe, appeared to best advantage in white.  The pitched roof, painted an improbable, evocative shade of blue that reminded her of the sea, only enhanced the effect.

The main building, a large three-story structure, was laid out in a U-shape, although the whole complex actually included two or three smaller buildings as well, which were attached to the one wing of the main structure.   A series of arches dominated the façade and there was a bell tower above the third floor that had to provide a spectacular view of the fields and the whole valley for miles around.   After guessing that the largest arch marked the main entrance, Sara steered her car in its direction.  She wasn't sure what she had expected, but somehow she was surprised by how full the parking lot was—nearly every of its ample spots had been taken already.  After driving up and down a few times, she maneuvered the car into the first open slot she could find.  As she stepped out eagerly, she raised her arms above her head to stretch her lean frame.  The afternoon sun still carried enough warmth to feel remarkably good on her face and neck; she slipped her leather jacket off and draped it over her arm.

The 4:30 tour, the last of the day, wouldn't be starting for another few minutes, so Sara took her time strolling toward the entrance.  The area had been expertly landscaped to include a variety of colorful plants, most only few feet high, although there was a series of tall, tapered trees arranged in rows on either side of the complex.  Another visual reference to European wine country, she was sure—though attractive, they were far too delicate-looking to be native to the Nevada.  She noticed other little touches as she approached the main door, including the flowing ironwork script above the main arch_, _the matched set of short, spiky palms that marked the transition from the gravel walkway to the tiled portico leading to the door, and a whimsically shaped door knocker—an iron wine glass hung upside down.   She fingered the bowl of the glass briefly, smiling, and stepped inside.

She found herself in a large entrance hall, wider than it was long and full of warm tones, the most significant of which emanated from the lovely pattern of ochre colored tiles that covered the floor.  Old-fashioned inlaid wood and glass display cases were arrayed along the walls to her right and left, each one filled with wine bottles draped with medals.   Sara drifted past the comfortably worn brown leather couches and armchairs in the middle of the space and moved in for a closer look.  From the little informational cards propped up next to each bottle, she could see that most of the prizes were for red varietals, merlots, pinot noirs and Burgundies with names like Mohave Blush, Symphonia, Rose Water and Charleston Peak.  The people who ran this place must be doing something right; they certainly had enough medals to go around.  Sara nodded approvingly at the bottles arrayed before her.  This little excursion was looking better and better.

"Hello there.  Are you here for the tour?"

A gray-haired older woman wearing long white caftan with embroidered edges had come up right behind Sara, her sensible, soft soled sandals having allowed her to make a silent approach.  She wore her hair in a long braid that was laid over one shoulder.  Despite its silvery color, she had the bronzed, healthy looking skin Sara might have expected of a woman much younger, and large brown eyes whose friendliness matched the expectant smile that creased her face.  

"Uh, yes, I am.  I'm not too late, am I?"  

The woman airily waved a delicate hand before reaching over to pat her arm. "Oh no, not at all.  Everyone's gathered out back already, but I know they haven't started walking yet.  Why don't I just take you out there to join them?"   She steered Sara toward the back of the room.  "My name's Rose, by the way, Rose Richards.  Welcome to the Vineyards."

"Thanks."

The other woman kept up an easy patter as she led the way through the hall, pointing out the reception area to their right and the gift store, which was off to the left.  Next to the store was the tasting room and bar, as well as the first floor of the Pahrump Vineyards' restaurant, where Sara hoped to have dinner after the tour and tasting.  She had been too distracted to call ahead for reservations, but she planned to see if they could fit her in anyway.  It looked rather fancier than she had anticipated, though, all whitewashed walls, dark patterned tablecloths and gleaming silver.  Sara frowned, wondering if her casual look would be a problem.  She had dressed for walking, really, and hadn't considered what the restaurant might be like.

"Oh, don't worry, there's no dress code in the restaurant.  We serve very fancy dishes, but we don't demand fancy dress."

Rose's eyes twinkled as she pointed to the small, whimsically lettered sign hung on the wall just outside the restaurant entrance: "Dine lavishly, dress comfortably."  Sara flushed slightly, but still had to laugh. 

"You picked a great day to visit, you know," she continued.

"I did?"

"Oh yes.  You see, my son is usually too busy to conduct the tours himself anymore, but he does try to lead one at least once a month.  John—that's my son—runs this place.  Opened the doors just over twelve years ago, on St. Patrick's Day, no less."  She gave Sara an impish look.  "He's got a sense of humor, my John."

Sara returned the look, enjoying the little tour before the tour more than she would have thought.  "So is it a family business? Son, mother…"

"Well, although he didn't set out to make it one, it pretty much is.  The daily management of a vineyard and the actual winemaking process is hard enough, and now the conferences and tours have become a major part of the business, too.  We get about 150,000 visitors a year, actually.  We even fly them in now."

"You _fly _them in?"

"Well, leave it to John to find new ways to get people out here," she laughed.  "He set up a special helicopter connection for casino guests in Vegas last year.  We pick you up at your hotel, fly you around Red Rock and then touch down here for a tour, and dinner.  Then on the way back, you get a nighttime view of the Strip from the air.  It's really lovely."  She clamped her lips shut abruptly, and shook her head.  "But listen to me going on and on--I shouldn't be stealing John's thunder like this.  He'll be covering all this in the tour.  He's _very_ thorough."

Oh, she's good, Sara acknowledged, amused.  It was no wonder she played hostess; motherly pride probably went a long way to putting people at ease.  As cute as she was, Sara wouldn't have been surprised to hear that she gave her son a gold star every time he showed up with another medal.  _Rose Water, indeed_.  Anywhere else and it would seem impossibly quaint, but here, in this unexpected place, it made sense.

When they came up to the back entrance, Rose pulled it open and urged Sara outside.  There were perhaps a dozen people milling around in small groupings or pairs in the late afternoon sun, most holding a glass of wine.  Sara had already immersed herself in a quiet assessment of the group, noting the range of ages, the gender breakdown, and the varied body language passing from one person to the next when it hit her.  Sharp, fruity, intense, the scent only vaguely resembled the weak aroma she sometimes picked up from ordinary grapes. The table grape smell was blandly sweet and mild, which assumed that they even had any scent left by the time they completed their journey from some farm to her fruit bowl.  But if the odors now wafting to her nose were any indication, wine grapes were much heartier than that.  The differences in tannin and fructose probably explained it, but whatever the reason, she liked the wine grape version much better.  It was just distinctive enough to make you want to lean in a little closer, the way you would lean into a man who smelled good.  Of course, there was no warm, living body at the heart of this natural perfume, but the heady effect of the heavy, hanging fruit was much the same.  

As she continued to savor the air, Sara cast her eyes over the fields, which she was surprised to find ran very close to where they were standing.  She had assumed that they would pile into a cart or some other vehicle to get to the growing areas, but the vines were obviously close enough to be reached on foot.  She was still measuring the distance with her eyes when she heard a familiar prompt.   A key, she decided, rather than the usual knife or fork, pinging lightly against a wine glass.

"Well, it's right about that time, folks, so I'd like to get started.  First of all, thank you for coming to the Vineyards. We have a great time out here, and we're just thrilled that you decided to join us this afternoon to see that for yourselves.   It's possible that some of you may have taken one of our tours already—we do have a lot of repeat visitors--but for those who haven't, let me just say that the plan is simple.  We're going to walk, we're going to talk, and then we're going to sip our way through a whole slew of wine."  He paused.  "And thank God, all three of those things are now legal in the state of Nevada."  It was clearly a punch line he had used many times before, but Sara was sure it worked like a charm each time. 

Richards, a lightly built, rangy man with sandy hair shading into gray and bright blue eyes that contrasted vividly with his mother's, smiled broadly. "Yep, hard to believe but true: until we lobbied the state government back in 1991, it was technically illegal for us to produce and sell wine harvested from our own grapes here in the Valley, or even to process wine from grapes purchased from other vineyards for sale within state lines.  The old statute expressly prohibited the production or sale of alcohol that had not been 'imported' into the state."   He laughed, or rather, cackled. "Can you believe it?  In a gambling state, too." 

"See what I mean?"  Rose whispered.  "Never misses a beat.  Natural born talker."

"Takes after me, don't you think?"  Before Sara could do anything more than smile, Rose winked, gave her arm a final squeeze, and slipped back inside the door through which they had come. 

The group had now begun to move forward, following the man who took after his mother.  Sara moved too, although she purposely lingered at the back of the group.  She did want to hear what Richards had to say, but she was less interested in inviting conversation by walking in the middle of the crowd.   It took an effort not to overtake the others with her long strides, but she consoled herself with the thought that being forced to slow down was good discipline.

"Where to begin, friends?  Well, first of all, let me introduce myself.  I'm John Richards, the owner and founder of what you see here.  I can tell you that when I opened these vineyards, people thought I was a lunatic with too much spare time on his hands.  Now that it's twelve years later, they still think I'm crazy, but they're also too busy enjoying the wine to care. We really have proven the skeptics wrong: it is possible to produce great wine in the desert.  And that's exactly what we're going to show you today."

He continued to talk as the group strung itself out behind him.  Sara listened with one ear, walking with one hand shoved in her back pocket and occasionally kicking up little puffs of sandy soil with her boots.  It seemed like a curious mixture to her, light sand mixed with pebbles and dark earth.  The sound of Richards' voice caught her attention again as he began to warm to his theme.  

"The first thing we like to point out is that despite the fact that we are "The Winery in the Desert," the desert isn't the only thing that's here.  If you'll look beneath your feet, you'll see that what you're standing on is not actually typical Nevada sand.  There's good black soil in there, tiny bits of rock, plus the sandy stuff—all of which makes the whole mixture very light and porous…like this, see?"  The bit of earth his workbook kicked into the air dispersed like darkly grained mist. "That's why I chose this valley for my little experiment.  You need rocky, porous soil to grow high quality grapes and that's exactly the kind of soil that was deposited here thousands of years ago when mountain streams carried runoff from Mount Charleston, the peak behind me, down to the plain where we're standing.  Over the centuries, the process repeated itself so many times that it created what's known as an alluvial fan.  And as the diehard wine enthusiasts among you already know, alluvial soil is perfect for cultivating vines.  That, along with the 100 days of rainfall we get every year and the fact that temperatures here are consistently about ten degrees cooler than in the center of Pahrump, means that we do all right for ourselves."  He grinned conspiratorially.  "Even in the middle of the Mohave."

He had led them to the edge of the fields now, and Sara could see that the generous three-foot spaces between each row of vines made it possible to walk among them easily.  She had expected the plants to stand taller than she did, especially since they were propped up on wooden planter's stakes.  In reality, though, they only rose to her shoulders, which meant that she did not have to crane her neck very much in order to enjoy the view.  The planting area looked a little different from this vantage point among the vines and as a light wind rustled her hair around her face, she stopped to take it in.  _It really is pretty, isn't it?_  She tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled, struck by just how long it had been since she had done anything like this, something purely frivolous and for its own sake.  Most of what she did in her free time was really a means to an end—scanning police radio chatter, studying journals, going to the gym.  She used to be better about that, about balancing life and work, when things were less…complicated.  Even friendships had been easier to manage.   Letting people in a little wasn't quite as risky when she had better control over her situation.   Sure, there had been whispers among the San Fran crowd about her personal life, before Grissom and after him, too.  But she could handle that--it was just idle gossip, easy to ignore when she knew the truth of her own behavior, and his.  Those people had seen some things, some hints, but not nearly enough to disrupt her way of interacting with them—the disciplined rationing of herself to others, the careful apportionment of every detail of her life--these were the habits of a lifetime. And so even under the weight of their suspicions, she could still pull off the required sleight of hand: showing only the bare minimum, only the very least of what she could stand to let anyone see about who she was, deep down.   

But…things were different here.  Maybe she hadn't quite realized how much until now.  Here, in the place where she worked with him every day and fell a little more in love every day, it was like little pieces of her private self were always coming loose and slipping out into the open…She did try to catch them before they got away from her, but how do you retract a smile, cool a blush, or pull the light back into your eyes?  You don't, or at least, she didn't.   Doing any of that would have meant completely shutting down around him and that was precisely what she could not bring herself to do.  Even in her own defense, even for her own protection.  It was almost funny, she supposed.  How could a woman like her have kept the others from knowing so many things, but not the one thing that mattered most?   And at some level, they did all know…how could they not, when even total strangers knew?  _"Eyewitness stated that he saw you…"  _She closed her eyes, trying not to see the gallery full of faces.  _Sara Sidle, ladies and gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure--Welcome to the show_.   A once-private life now lived on display to anyone who had eyes to see.  Anyone, everyone, except the one she prayed would see.  She shook her head roughly, and forced her eyes open.  _I probably got it all wrong anyway, like I usually do._  Like regretting what he didn't see, instead of considering the likelihood that he saw too much.  Too much of what she felt, too much of what she wanted, too much of what he couldn't handle.  The only mystery was how the man who had too much of her could possibly think there was anything left to give to someone else.  How did he figure it worked, exactly?  Was it just some overflow that he imagined, from her, to him, to…other men?  _For his viewing displeasure, the vessel that leaks and spills and makes a mess, as the cracks in her thin surface cause all around to slip and fall…Caution.  Hazard.  Wet surface ahead… _

What was she supposed to say to that?  What could anyone say?   The sun was warm still, but her skin grew cold and she hid her hands in her pockets.  Maybe that was what he was he had been trying to not let her quite see.  To see that this was where it had to end at last, at the point where there was nothing more to be said, only a mess to be cleared away. 

Sara lowered her eyes to the ground; she pushed at it with her shoe.  She could see the stones more clearly now; not pebbles, but stones.  Not tiny either, but large and ugly and hard.  Her tongue curled in on itself inside her mouth as she turned.  It was time to get on with this day in the life she deserved.   

"Hey, do you mind if I hide back here with you for a while?  I am in flight."

Sara stopped short, just in time to prevent the collision.  

"I mean, I like the guy, but there's only so much I need to know about the nasty diseases that grape vines get, you know?"  The speaker's expression could only be described as one of amused horror.  "Once he started to get that gleam in his eye about fruit fungus, that pretty much killed it for me.  He might as well have called it grape gangrene."

In her forties, Sara guessed, curly black hair, pale blue eyes, more than a few laugh lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, and apparently, unafraid of strangers.   She had come out of nowhere, and certainly uninvited, but it was possible that wasn't the worst thing in the world under the circumstances.  _It's not like I was doing so great hanging out in my own head, was I?  And at least she's got a sense of humor._   After gnawing at her lip for a moment as she considered her options, Sara mustered up a tentative smile.

The woman smiled back, looking bit relieved at her reception.  She urged Sara forward with a tilt of her head as the crowd ahead them began to drift forward once again.

"I'm sorry to just barge in on you like this."  She sounded slightly embarrassed.  "I'm not usually so presumptuous, but…I really couldn't take the fungus thing.   I don't even like the sound of the word, far less the life form."  

Sara smiled a bit more naturally and held up a hand, "No arguments here."

"Plus I'm so hopped up on hormones these days that I really have no shame about imposing myself on people anymore."  This was added this causally, almost as an afterthought.  

_Hopped up on…_

The quick shake of her head conveyed more than the words.  "Long story, another time."  Sara could see something flit over the other woman's face, but it seemed to pass quickly, and she soon put out her hand.

"I'm Susan, by the way."

"Sara."   

"Well, Sara, you were smart to hide out back here.  Get too close to that guy and he'll practically hypnotize you, fruit diseases and all.  Quite the character, isn't he?"

"Quite," Sara agreed.  "But in a good way, really.  Besides, being a "character" is pretty much a given for anybody who would come out here to set up a vineyard. That, and a silver tongue."

"Oh, yes…Although if I remember correctly, their website did mention that there have been vineyards in this Valley before, one around 1875 or so, and then another one in the early 1900s.  Neither of them lasted very long, though."  Susan shrugged, squinting in the glare of the late afternoon sun.  "I don't know if it was a matter of not being able to make money at it, or whether it was more of a hobby to begin with and so when the founders died, it died with them, or what."   

"Well, either way, it had to come down to whether those wineries were real family businesses to start with.  After all, if their kids didn't want it, who else would?"

"Beats me," Susan laughed. 

"Okay everyone, here comes the fun part."  

Sara had been about to speak, but the sound of Richards' voice made both women look up before she could do so.  He was standing at the head of the group with his arms spread wide like a man bestowing a blessing.  "Go for it."  

When most of the group merely stared back at him, he sighed loudly.  "Oh, don't pull the shy act now.  It's not like you all don't snack on grapes you have no intention of buying as you shop those supermarket aisles.  At least here you can do it without committing petty larceny."  

After the laughter had died down, the newly clued in began to tug at the plump bunches of fruit that dangled from the vines on either side of them.   Sara looked over at Susan and shrugged.  They angled themselves away from the others, having decided to compare notes.  

"_Wow_.  Night and day."  The words were distorted a bit as Sara spoke around a mouthful.  She had chosen to split three of them open with her teeth at the same time, thus allowing the flavor to slowly colonize her tongue.  This was the best way to savor the fruit, but it did make clear enunciation tricky.  "Really not sweet at all.  It's kind of earthy…tangy, too."

"Tangy is right," Susan muttered.  "Eat too many of these and you might get lockjaw."  

Sara was still snickering at the puckered expression on her companion's face when she heard a voice from somewhere over her shoulder.  .  

"So this is where you ran off to.  Gee, thanks for leaving me alone with the wine guy."  

The voice was light and clear, and as its owner steered around Sara, she could see that he was smiling.  He was a tall man with a full head of thick hair that was graying well, and a lean, boyish face.  He stepped close to Susan and put one hand on her back.

"Hey, I tried to give you the signal, but…"

"The signal?  The signal is you bumping your shoe against mine.  That's not what you did."  The words were accusatory, but his mouth twitched as he spoke.

"No, that was the old signal.  The new one is all about the elbow, remember?  When I saw where the guy was headed, I did tap my elbow against yours.  You just weren't paying attention," Susan declared, hands on her hips.  She shot Sara a look before shaking her head at the new arrival.  "That man had you at 'fungus' "

Susan held out the longest, extending the joke with her deadpan expression, but after a few seconds she did let a giggle escape. 

She winked at Sara.  "We loved that movie."   

"Translation: _she_ loved that movie.  I, I just went along to keep her company."  The explanation came a little too hastily to be believed, but Sara nodded sympathetically.   

"Besides, the only reason you love it so much is because the guy had to come begging on his hands and knees and practically spout poetry before she would take him back."  

"Hey!"  Susan raised a finger.  "She told him he had her at 'hello,' okay?  It's not her fault he didn't read the signs and kept on flailing around like some puppy.  _You…complete…me_."   She snorted.  "He did that damage to himself."

In the aftermath of finally giving in to the impulse to laugh out loud, Sara could feel a wide grin spread across her face as she looked from one to the other, and back again.  _Married, definitely married._  Laughter, touches, interruptions, nonsensical debates…the whole comfortable, flowing vibe_.  _ She'd seen it before.  Her parents were destined to frustrate her on many levels, but she had never doubted their fundamental harmony as husband and wife.  There was definitely something special about being in it for life, and knowing that whatever happens, no one is walking away.  _The safest place to be in the world, or it would be…yeah, real safe for a man who thinks I'm some kind of hazard to his life… _Her smile slipped; she blinked rapidly as if to ward off some bright light.  As twinges of some emotion that she preferred not to interrogate too closely ran through her, she instinctively brought her arms up into their familiar position across her body.   She forced herself to swallow whatever had lodged itself inside her throat, and fixed her smile back into place.   

As he and his wife finished smiling their wordless way through a conversation begun long ago about men who flail, and the women who love them, Mark turned to Sara with brightened eyes.  "I'm Mark, by the way.  Mark Norris."  

"I'm Sara. Sidle.  Nice to meet you." 

"Oh sorry, guys.  Sara, this is my husband, Mark.  Mark, meet Sara, who took pity on me when I fled back here." 

As Richards waved the group forward, the three of them fell into easy step with other. 

"So, are you from Vegas, Sara?"

"Oh no, I grew up near San Francisco.  I only moved out here for work a couple of years ago."

"And work is…?"  Mark prompted, eyebrows raised.

"Criminalistics…crime scene stuff.  You know, blood, guts, and the people who spill them."   She spoke jokingly, slightly nervous as always about a new acquaintance's reaction to her peculiar line of work.   

His eyes lit up with something she assumed was enthusiasm, although she couldn't quite imagine why that would be his response.  He didn't look like the ghoulish type she occasionally ran into, the sort who loves hearing bloody case stories in much the same way peasants once loved the guillotine.  He looked like a super-excited ten year old, actually, which was an amusing sight in a man who had to be close to five times that old.

"You're serious, right?  That's what you do for a living?"

"Uh-huh."

Susan tipped her head back she laughed.  "Oh, this was meant to be, Sara."

"I don't understand…"

"Well, Mark's a writer, and lately, whenever he's not doing the Dr. Norris thing at his practice, he's been working on a--"

Mark rushed in before she could finish, grimacing and ducking his head slightly.  "Susan, please…I'm really not a writer, Sara.  I…want to write, and I have been working on something for the past few months, but it's nowhere near done and what is done is pretty crappy…"  He took a deep breath.  "Besides, it's not like I've never been published, or written anything before, really… I have no idea why I'm complicating my life—I mean I have a great practice, and I like my work…the writing is just, you know…I mean, it's not like I'm going to write the great American novel…"  As his voice, which had grown more hesitant with each word, finally trailed off with into an unhappy silence, Sara could see Susan's eyes soften.

"Well…I'm not an expert on this sort of thing, but…I would figure everybody has to start somewhere, right?  I mean, think of it this way: every writer we've ever heard of said exactly what you just did at one point or another."  She kept her tone light, but her smile was emphatic.   Mark managed a nod as he met her eyes briefly, but he soon returned to his examination of his shoes.  

"So…what kind of book have you been working on?"

He shrugged, intending that as his answer, but when he looked up again, Sara was staring at him expectantly.

"Oh well…it's…well, it's a mystery novel, actually. You know, the genre that seems so easy until you actually try to write one…"  The unease was still there, but the redness started to recede from his face and he tried to smile.  

"Well, now you really do have to give me all the details.  What kind of homicide are we talking about here?  Murder for profit, revenge, murder for hire, psycho serial killer…"  Sara's eyes gleamed with mischief.  "I love mysteries."

His smile opened up as he began to elaborate and gesture with his hands.   Susan's glance up at him was wistful.  She sent a grateful smile in Sara's direction and then quietly slipped her arm into his. 

*****

After Mark eventually roamed ahead of them to catch up to their indefatigable tour guide, the two women closed the few feet separating them and continued their stroll.

"Hey," Susan said softly.  She gave Sara's shoulder a gentle nudge.  "Thanks."

"For what?"  

"For…listening to him, for asking so many great questions, and…"  She shrugged as she gazed off into the distance, wondering why she was getting into this at all, even as she kept on talking with this relative stranger.  "And for just…taking the writing thing seriously.  Most people aren't that considerate.  All they want to know is if he's been published, and once he says he hasn't, they tune out."

"Well, they're stupid."  Sara said flatly.  "And rude…where do people get that kind of attitude from?" 

"I have no idea.   And the thing is, he's really talented, too.  I mean, sure I'm biased, and so far he's been way too nervous to let me even see what he's been writing, but…I just know he can do it."  She paused, searching for the right word to describe her faith.  "He has a…poetic kind of mind, you know?  A poet's way of weighing each word."

_It was just four words, and a lifetime ago, but_…  "Yeah."

"Some of the things he says…"  Susan shook her head, laughing at herself.  "I always tell him that's what got us to where we are.  If he hadn't let that less…careful…part of himself out at a time when we were both ready to walk away, I'd be strolling in some vineyard back East on my own right about now."

She caught herself when she saw Sara wince slightly and immediately laid a hand on her arm.  "Oh no, no, please don't take it that way.  I did have a life before Mark, and if we hadn't worked things out, I would have had a life after him, a good one, with vineyards and travel and work and friends, all sorts of things." 

Her eyes brightened as they settled on her husband, who was carrying on an animated conversation with John Richards near the front of the group.  "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't prefer the life that we have together."

As she followed the path Susan's eyes had just taken, Sara could feel her heart sink a little lower.  She might have had a life before Grissom, namely the life she'd had before she came here, but it had slowly faded for her, almost as if she couldn't make room for it when she was in his daily orbit, exposed to his strange fields.   She could have made her peace with that, as long as they built a new life together, but the truth was that there was no such thing on the horizon.  All she had to look forward to now was a life after him, whatever and wherever that might be.  She grasping at something to say that would keep her from giving in to the quiet sea of panic that was rising within her chest, something that would keep her from thinking about herself.

"So…why were you ready to give up?"

Susan bit her lip.  "Oh, the usual.  He was content with the way things were, I wanted more."  She sent Sara a weighted look. "He has a greater tolerance for ambiguity than I do." 

Sara met her eyes for a few seconds before looking away.  

"Must have been tough."

"It was.  We sort of papered things over until things just built up to this one horrible night.  We both just lost it.  I'll spare you the details, but it was without a doubt, the worst night of my life.  I walked out of his place, and I thought, 'That's it.  It's done.'  And it was done, for a while."

"How did you work your back together?"

"He…wrote me a letter.  It came weeks after we had ended things, or sort of ended things, and definitely after I convinced myself that he would never figure it out…"  She sighed.  "It started with a poem and ended with a poem, and what came between the two was just…well…it was enough." 

Her smile was sweet.  

"Enough to help me see that it was just…one bad night."

Sara was staring at her now, waiting.

"That night, the worst one of my life?"

Sara nodded.

"In the end, it was just one bad night.  What's one, out of the tens of thousands that we would have if we gave ourselves a chance?   He really hurt me by not trying to figure out what he really wanted for us sooner, but he was sorry, and he said so.  He explained himself as best he could, and in a way that I knew was really hard for him.  None of us wants to examine ourselves, or the stuff we drag around in our heads too closely, after all.  But he did.  And he did it for me, because of me.  If he could do that, then I could have the faith to let it be just one bad night.  And so I did.  For him, because of him."  The lift of her shoulder was a delicate movement, the physical counterpoint to the words.  "To paraphrase someone who knew a few bad nights herself, 'And so, dear Reader, I married him.'"

The two women contemplated each other in silence, exchanging some inexpressible thought.  Sara felt Susan touch her elbow to hers and they continued down the green row, their forms casting long shadows against the fertile soil under their feet. 

*****

"You've got to be kidding."

Sara tried to appeal to Mark for help, but he was backing Susan and merely crossed his arms.  

"Not at all, this is dead serious."

Sara gaped at her.  "You…expect me to actually get into that thing?  Uh, no, I don't think so.  But you guys have fun for me, okay?"  Since gaping hadn't worked, she went with the blinding smile.

"Oh please, don't tell me Crime Girl can't handle it…."  Mark said, the picture of smugness.

"I told you not to call me that."  The laughter was probably ruining her effort to seem offended, but she couldn't help herself. 

"I know."  He looked gleeful.  

"Sa-ra…" Susan warbled.  "We're wait-ing."

"And you'll be waiting a long time.  No way, no how.  Do you know how many germs are in that thing?"

Husband and wife exchanged a significant look.  

"Hey! What's that look about?"

Susan executed a well-rehearsed eye roll.  "Someone has 'issues.'"

"Someone's afraid of getting her feet all mucky."  Mark agreed solemnly.

"I am not afraid of--"  Sara sighed.  _I walked right into that._

They pounced, almost speaking simultaneously. "So, if you're not afraid, then do it!"

Sara looked at the huge oak vat bound by rings of iron, which now held everyone from the tour, except her.  Mark and Susan sat sidesaddle, one leg in and one leg out.  They had thus far refused to actually put both legs inside until Sara joined them.  Sighing again, she gnawed on her lower lip, trying to decide just how disgusting the experience might be if she gave in to them.  The sound of squishing was not doing much to persuade her.  

"Come on, Sara, this is part of the vineyard experience.  Sure it's a little hokey, but that's okay.  Sometimes hokey is good." 

"And besides, you did say this is the one day off you'll get this week, right?  Better make it count.  And just…think of the story you'll be able to tell when you get back."  

Sara turned her eyes to Susan, who was observing her shrewdly.  _Better watch out for her, she's quick. I wonder if this is how she gets the people she interviews to spill their guts…sociology of culture, my ass.  I bet she really teaches psych. _ 

"Yeah, well…I mean…I don't know…maybe I could."

Kind people that they were, they let this bumbling response pass in silence and simply stared at her with hopeful smiles.

_This is the real world.  This is a life._

"Move over.  I need to sit if I'm going to get these boots off."

Amid the laughter and continued busting of her chops, she managed to tug her boots and sock off.  She was already rolling up the hem of her pants, when her bag, which she had been trying to hold against her lap, tumbled to the ground.  Groaning, Sara hopped down from the vat's edge in her bare feet to grab at what had fallen out.  Keys, sunglasses, lipstick, wallet…and she noticed, her pager.  She swore softly when she recognized the familiar shape of the device.  _Damn.  Totally forgot to turn it on before I left.  Damn._  She exhaled slowly, hating the fact that she had neglected something so basic.  She probably hadn't gotten any pages, anyway.  Grissom probably would have rather thrown himself in front of a moving vehicle than see her so soon after she had been so "emotional" in his office.  Besides, he did tell her she deserved a life, right?  Even if he really did need her help at the lab, he probably wouldn't page her, just to prove his point.  She reached for the piece of black plastic calmly, dusted it off against her leg, and clicked it on.  

"Call Gil Grissom."  _Damn_.  Time of call…16:30…an hour ago.  It would take at least another hour to get back. 

It wasn't as if he was calling to see her, it was just work.  Which probably made it pathetic to feel a little excited, a little pleased, a little…something.   Probably, but she felt it anyway.

"Sara?  Something wrong?"  Susan looked a little worried.

As she straightened up, Sara put the pager back in her purse, and walked quickly to her shoes.  

"I'm really sorry, guys, but I have to go.  It's work.  They paged me an hour ago, but I had forgotten to turn it on until now."   

"Oh no!  Do you have to leave right this minute?  You never even got a chance to pick up a few bottles to take home."

"Yeah, I'm afraid I do have to go right now."  Sara stopped tugging on her boots for a second.  "I guess I'll have to check out the Pahrump labels at one of the wine stores in Vegas, or something."  She looked up at them.  "Oh well, huh?"

Susan frowned, but quickly smiled again.  "Hey, why don't we pick up a couple of bottles for you.  And then, when we get together again, we'll bring them to you."  

"Oh, no, I couldn't let you do that.  Don't worry about it, I can always buy some in Vegas."

"But it's not the same, Sara.  This is supposed to be the "vineyard experience," remember?  You've just got to walk away with a couple of bottles that you purchased here.  It's good form."  Mark's tone was firm.

Sara grinned.  "Well, I'd hate to be in bad form.  Okay then, thanks, and I'll pay you back when I see you."

"Deal."

She stood up.  Susan had been rummaging through her own purse, and now held out a card.  

"Here's my card.  It's got everything on there.  Email me or call me, okay?  I know you work nights, but I don't lecture every day, so I can meet you for lunch or coffee anytime.  I'll show you all the cool campus hangouts."  Susan gave her a sly look.  "The hangouts I don't tell Mark about, where I meet my, uh…enthusiastic male assistants."

Sara laughed.  "Damn, Mark.  Are you going to let her get away with that?"  
  


His grimness was almost comical on his normally cheerful face.  "Oh, don't worry, Crime Girl.  You may well have one more case tonight…"

Their laughter was still echoing in her ears when she pulled out onto Winery Road.

_Getting away, getting a life…meeting two people who actually have a life.  Two people he would like, too, if…   _

No need to consult the map.  She knew the way back by heart.

_(TBC…)_


End file.
